The sky in the place where I live is blue.
The bluest you have ever seen,
When it rains, it rains not buckets
but enough rain to last a life time.
When the sun shines, it is so strong we need special sun glasses to go out,
and when the wind blows, it blows so hard,
it takes us places
we do not necessarily want to go.
Our people are the nicest you will ever meet,
Our children are so lovely and sweet in their innocence.
The walls around the place I live in are so high
Nobody ever managed to climb in to visit us.
Or for one of us to see what it looks like on the outside.
About the Creator
Jeannine Kauffmann
Poetry writer in the early morning. Poetry as a wake up call. Then later I draw lines and colours. I have a page on Instagram my art other than words although it contains words too. Titles are important to finish a piece like a full stop.
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Message Me Afterwards
>That was a bad idea. I thought you knew… >Oh, the pathos! I don’t really know you as well as I should. In fact, I may not know the real you at all. That essential, sparkling you that you only reveal to a select few. Had I been paying more attention to the stories you are so fond of telling, in which you are invariably author, narrator and protagonist, I would not have been so foolish as to set you up on a blind date. After all, no friend has ever done anything of the kind for another. That’s preposterous. What is a friend, really?
By D. J. Reddall5 days ago in Fiction
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